The 66th Hunger Games
by KidWithTheFace
Summary: Flick Mistral is nearly away from the reaping's grasp, and with new hopes of escaping District 7 it all comes crashing down. (Canon)
1. One

The bitterly cold wind takes my breath away and threatens to knock me over. I rub hands together, blowing hot air into them. Even though it's probably the most dangerous natural area left in Panem, I love it. With the frigid temperatures, mountain lions, and even a bear once in a blue moon. It's more like home than my real home. "Home," I laugh to myself. You can call that house whatever you want, just not 'home'. It is anything but.

That one bedroom cabin I'm bound to is not my home. A home is somewhere you should feel safe and loved. This snowy mountain range is my home and that's how I want to keep it. I feel safe here. Loved? In a sense, yes.

My father wanted a girl. So when I was born he begged my mother to have another. She died in the process, along with the child. So I'm left with my alcoholic father who doesn't even work anymore, forcing me to provide for us.

District 7 is starting to show the signs of summer. The bears have woken from hibernation, cutting me from the streams and the fish they hold. Flowers adding some much needed color. But it's just a ruse because today they will call the names and tarnish any beauty I can find.

I'm almost too absorbed in thought that the rustling noise to my back eludes me. I pose my knife into a throwing position. It continues. "Stop messing around," I say, hoping it is my hunting partner. This would be a usual prank for him, he likes to use my paranoia for jokes. I don't find it all too funny.

Then a small, white animal bursts from the brush, mouth agape and ready to kill. Before it can get five feet I throw my knife, it sticks into the animal's back. I crouching by the thing, now recognizing as a common snowfox: I must have strolled too close to its den. The beautiful, paper white fur is stained crimson where my knife entered. They usually live in the arctic desert to the north, but some have made their home in my forest.

I'm about to take out the knife when I notice that it's still breathing. A shallow breath, but this snow fox is still alive. From the look of it, a mother. Now her pups are going to die because I killed her. I hate this: I hate killing the animals so I can survive. They shouldn't die because of my country's poverty.

"Flick, you're doing it again," a voice scolds. I look up to find my hunting partner. His shaggy black hair is tucked into a cap. When he looks at me I feel as he's looking right through. He is very intimidating. And I used to find him intimidating, but after some five years of working together the intimidation turns to protection.

"Doing what?" I ask, knowing the answer all too well.

He crouches by the fox and takes out his sheathed knife. "If you did not kill this animal, it would have killed you. And you have to eat." Everything he says is true, but I still feel bad about it. He then stabs the fox in the heart and her small breaths stop.

There's a stillness in the air while Leto skins the fox that I can't get around. Like the forest is silencing itself for us.

We share an embrace and he plants a kiss on my lips. Somehow it wards off the cold, but only for a second.

"Did you stop by and talk to Moxie?" I ask.

"She said thanks again for the bear meat. Was cutting some up to sell today when I got there." Leto digs around in his pack and produces a loaf of bread. "It was just sitting there and I asked Moxie about. She said that she was going to throw it out so I should just take it, put it to use." Leto and I share a glance, we both know Moxie's true intentions, it's so hard for her to show emotion these days.

"Zucchini," I say taking the bread, holding it close to warm me. We find a place to huddle down in and eat the bread. I pretty much inhale it because I didn't eat much for supper the night before.

"I wanted to talk to you about something," Leto mutters, avoiding eye contact.

"Yes?" We talk in hushed voices because even beyond the threshold of District 7 you can never know who is listening. Human or animal.

"Since we're both good hunters, and don't really have families," he says. Leto's own father moved away before he was born, and his mother and younger brother died in a freak wood mill fire three years ago, when he was sixteen. He's been alone since. Except for Moxie and me, I suppose.

"What are you getting at?"

He looks me in the eyes, his overwhelming blue eyes look soft and scared now. "We should run away."

For anyone else this would be impossible. But Leto and I have been hunting for years, we know the land, it would be easy for us to survive. Does he really hate District 7 so much to leave it? Do I? We sit there in silence for a minute as I think. I do want to leave, but the risk is so high. If I say yes, we could both die. "When?" I ask to break the silence. He smiles.

"Right now, tonight, in the morning. It's up to you." This isn't like him. I've known Leto for a good chunk of my life. He likes making the decisions, being in control. If he's leaving so much up to me, he must be as uncertain as I am.

Leaving sounds pretty appealing. No more of my father, the Peacekeepers. No more of the Hunger Games. I wouldn't have to watch those kids die every year, which has been silently driving me crazy. How could a sane person take joy in another humans pain and death? They couldn't. The Capitol is insane.

"We would need to pack, and have a good night of sleep." As soon as I say that, Leto's face lights up. He stuffs the fox meat into his game bag, then looks at me very oddly, almost sad.

"What about this afternoon?" he asks. "There's still a chance you could-"

My hand finds his. "I'll be fine. It's my last reaping." He manages a smile, but we both know I've got bad odds. I'll have twenty-one of my names in the reaping ball. Sure, tons of other guys have more than me, but that's still a lot. There was this one boy last year with fifty-some entries. He was chosen and didn't last five minutes.

As we walk back to our prison of a District, I notice that Leto keeps looking at me and when I try to catch his glance, he looks away. Like he doesn't want to look me in the eyes. He's acting very strange, even for what we just talked about.

I stop him just outside city limits and try looking him in the eyes. But he avoids my gaze. "Something wrong?" I ask. He turns and faces the snow covered woods we just came from. Then me, looking me in the eyes, smiling ever so slightly. His bright blue eyes peering into my dull gray ones. "You okay?" I try again, quietly.

"Perfect," he says smoothly, still looking me in the eyes.

"We should get going," I say turning towards District 7. And as soon as I start he kisses my cheek, which turns to locked lips soon enough. My idle hands find their way around his back. He does the same, forcing me closer to him.

I'm not sure what Leto and I are. I mean we kiss, and nothing else. Once, Leto tried for more but I stopped him and he's never pushed those boundaries again. Never talking about the things that transpire. This dance started up about a year ago when Leto decided he liked me and I decided to let my guard down.

He pulls away, still inches from my face and just looks at me. His warm breath tingling my lips. We focus on one another eyes, both of us waiting for a response from the other. "I'm worried," he says with his strong arms wrapped around me, rocking side-to-side ever so gently.

Is he talking about the reaping, or us running away? Probably the latter. I take a deep breath to clear my head. "Everything will be okay." Though, I'm not so sure. There's so much to worry about. I'd offer to run away right now, but we need supplies. Sleep would be secondary right now. "We could leave today," I propose, hoping he won't think I'm being rash.

He smiles. "You're so amazing." This makes me smile too.

"Is that a yes?"

"Of course it is," he says hugging me tightly. His warm body protects me from the still frozen forest. "But the reaping is in less than an hour." No way we could get back to town, pack, and return to the forest within that timeframe. And if someone doesn't show up for the reaping, the Peacekeepers will come looking for you. That's the last thing we need.

"We'll meet back here after," I say strategically. He nods and tightens the bag over his shoulder.

"Okay," he confirms. We decide who is to bring what.

As we're about to depart, Leto brings me in close again. He turns his cap around, causing his hair to become even more discorded, then kisses me. This one's different. The last was gentle, weak even. But this is so intense, passionate. As if we'll never see each other again. Which is a possibility I suppose, what with the cloud of my being sent to the Capitol hanging over our heads.

After a few seconds of ecstasy, I lose my breath and have to pull away.

"I love you," Leto says while his breath tickles my lips as a feather would. His words hit me like a ton of bricks; I'm completely stunned.

A distant siren rings. "The reaping will start in, forty-five minutes," an impossibly loud, mechanical voice says.

Leto's face is blank. The announcement hasn't fazed him at all. Just the opposite of me: we need to leave right now if we're to make it to the reaping on time. "We should leave," I say. I know I should respond to his comment, but I don't know what to say.

"Yeah," he says with as much emotion as the dead fox in his bag.

I want to comfort him. Tell him how I feel towards him. That he's my best friend, and the only person in this world that I deeply care about. And the only person that I know cares about me. But I don't think I love him. Love opens you up to so many things. Good and bad. It's the bad I'm scared of. I'm comfortable with whatever we have now. Why'd he have to go and change that?

We part ways in such painful silence.

As I open my door I find my dad sprawled out on the couch. Either passed out from alcohol, or hasn't even woken up yet. The whole district is required to go to the reaping so I have only one option. I'm forced to say the four worst words ever: "The reaping is today."

Thankfully, my father is a light sleeper, so I don't have to repeat myself. "Go away," he mumbles. I take his advice and head to the bathroom to clean up. "Where's my stuff?"

His words anger me. I hate having to provide for the two of us but I have even more hatred towards the fact the he knows it and exploits it. "Sorry. Between risking my life and the reaping, I must of forgotten to get your alcohol."

"Don't give me attitude!" he yells. I ignore him and continue to the bedroom. Does he even care that I could be sent to the Capitol today? He mustn't.

After washing up I find something nice to wear. We've had to sell most of our finer clothes in the past year, so all that remains is one of my father's old dress shirts. Slightly too big for me, but it will do. Solid black with red seams and buttons. It's made out of some type of silk, I think. Very simple, very expensive. I wonder where he got it.

I join my father in the kitchen to see his progress. To my surprise, he looks presentable, clean. His light brown hair has been neatly combed, which is the one thing I share with my father. People say we resemble each other. I don't see it.

"Where did you get that?" he asks me, referring to the slightly itchy shirt. I suppose our spat about the alcohol is over, but there's still a permanent bitterness between us.

"In the closet. I thought you wouldn't mind." He makes a throaty noise. "Is it special?"

He pauses, takes a drink of liquor and looks down at the glass. "I got married in that."

"Oh," I stammer. If there's one thing I know about my father, it's that he loved my mother with his whole being. I've heard people tell me how he reacted when she died: he lost the will to live. That's probably why he drinks, to escape reality. I wonder if it works. Does he long for her even in his drunken state? Or is he too incoherent to even remember his own name?

I feel bad that I brought up such bad memories. "I can take it off, if you want." He looks at me quizzically.

"No. She would want you to wear it," he says finishing his liquor.

My mother died when I was just an infant, so I've never felt her absence. Just a distance father. There was a time where my father did care though. It feels so very long ago, I think I was around ten when he gave in. I don't know why he just started drinking. Caring has turned into mere toleration of each other. Most days I can't stand to be around him.

We leave the house and walk to the reaping square in silence. Maybe deep down he does still care for me. Maybe. But I refuse to believe it. If he cared, he would choose spending time with me over spending it in a drunken fog.

At the reaping square, I neatly print my name on the sign-in sheet, Flick Mistral. Among other things, this helps keep track of District 7's population of nearly six-thousand. I turn to my father. His eyebrows are scrunched together, the same way they are when I tell him we're out of his favorite drink. "Good luck," he says flatly.

"Yeah," I retaliate just as cold.

My father makes his way to the sidelines. I join the crowd of eighteen-year-old males, the section closest to the stage. As I do, I notice the camera crews perched on the buildings like ravens waiting to pick clean the bones of a fallen animal. They'll capture every tear, every word, every facial expression of the two who will be the tributes of this year's Games.

More people join the crowd and I begin to feel besieged by the amount of possible tributes around me. Anyone of them could be pick. Any of them could die.

Onstage is our infamous district escort: Electra Dellsie. She wears a bright pink dress suit that hurts my eyes to look at. Her hair is an unnatural shade of yellow, it reminds my of an overly ripe lemon. These features give her an unreal quality, like she'll transform into a giant insect and walk right off stage as if it's the norm around here; I find her appearance comical. I'd laugh if I wasn't here right now.

The two mentors of District 7 are Blight Tyro and Harva Nesh. They sit onstage talking quietly. Blight's a big guy, not exactly over-weight, but close. In my district, having a few extra pounds on you is a very rare thing. So he stands out. Well, he'd stand out no matter what he looks like, seeing that he won the Hunger Games and has become something of a celebrity around here. He's in his early twenties with short blond hair. Blond hair is also very rare in my district. The majority have brown or black.

Harva Nesh is just the opposite. Lanky, straight black hair. Quite old also, in her sixties, I think. She won her games before I was even born. I've talked to this victor once. She's crass to say the least.

The mayor stands up and approaches the microphone. He reads the same thing as he does every year. How Panem rose from the ashes of a destroyed North America. The District rebelled and the Hunger Games began. Blah, blah, blah. I've heard this so many times. I'm just staring at the boy's reaping ball, twenty-one of them have my name on them. Now he reads the list of our victors of District 7. In sixty-six years, we've had five, the two onstage being the only ones still breathing. The other three died of various things. The Mayor finishes his speeches and introduces Electra Dellsie.

Electra blabs about what an honor it is to be here, but I can tell she's itching to be bumped up to a better district. "Well, lets get to it! And may the odds be ever in your favor!" She walks over to the girl's reaping ball and says, "Ladies first." As she waves her hand over the orb, it reminds me of a stork searching for fish in a river. She quickly grabs a slip of paper, prances back to her podium and unfolds it. "Marla Curt!"

Sadly, I know this girl, we went to school together. She's one year my junior. Though she was never nice to me, or anyone for that matter. I feel for her; no one deserves this. Marla walks up to the stage. Her face is blank. No emotion, no feeling. Nothing.

Electra gingerly asks if anyone would like to volunteer. Nobody does, of course. If I remember right she has a younger sister, but I doubt Marla would want her life in exchange of her's. And even if Marla was the nicest girl in District 7, I still doubt any volunteers would show.

Electra walks to the boy's reaping ball. I feel my heart begin to quicken. Not me, I think. Please, not me. Electra does the same stork hand gesture while pulling out the paper. Once she's chosen a victim she struts back to her podium, wetting her artificial lips. Please, I plead. Not me. Electra opens her mouth and speaks the very words I dread.

"Flick Mistral!"


	2. Two

This has to be a dream. It can't be real. I bring my right hand over to my left forearm and dig my fingernails into it, feeling at least a layer of skin break. Surely pain will free me from this nightmare. No such luck. I'm still here. Soon I will be there, in the Capitol, preparing for slaughter on live television.

Eyes are glued to me. People part as if I were on fire, making a path to the stage, I follow it, keeping a straight face as best I can. I catch the eye of a boy whom I went to school with. He gives me a solemn nod. Once onstage Electra asks for volunteers: if Leto were eligible he may take the offer, but he's nineteen. One year too old. I wouldn't want that for him, though. I don't want him dead. Just as I predicted: no one comes forth. The only one to answer Electra's invitation is the cool wind that blows right through me.

The mayor reads the Treaty of Treason quickly then orders Marla Curt and I to shake hands. Marla looks me in the eyes. Her hand is very sweaty. I can't help but think that this scrawny, blonde girl is conjuring up ways to kill me.

Panem's anthem plays. Scanning the crowd for Leto, I wonder of what he's thinking right now. I find his face easily enough, that's just as blank as it was after he said 'I love you' to me. If only I could go back to that moment! I'd return the comment the second after he said it. Now I'm realizing that I do love him. Why couldn't I have said that in the woods? I'm such a fool.

Seconds after the anthem ends, Marla and I are led by Peacekeepers into the Justice Building. They direct us into separate rooms where we'll say our final goodbyes to our friends and family. I sit in a worn chair and run my fingers through the ragged, faded blue fabric to try to calm myself, unsuccessfully. How many tributes have sat here? Needless to say, almost all are dead.

Of course, Leto comes in first. I spring up and fly into his arms, hugging him tightly, not daring to let go. He wraps his arms around me like he did in the woods this morning. Could that be right? Yes. Less than an hour ago I was at peace. "You can make it home," Leto says softly. "You're strong, smart. I know you can."

I wait a minute before answering. "I can barely kill the animals, how can-" Leto pulls back, looks me in the eyes.

"It's the Hunger Games, you have to kill." His tone is so serious, scary almost.

"I can't do it. They're people. Humans. I can't." The thought of killing another person is so fantastic he might as well ask me to fly.

We stand embraced until the peacekeepers knock on the door, just as he releases me I call his name. He turns. The two peacekeepers grip his arms and order him out. "I love you," I say quickly. He smirks. I can't help but think of how handsome he is, and how lucky I am that he likes me the way he does. And how stupid I am for not saying that earlier.

"I know, Flick," he says. "I know."

He exits the room. I fall back down in the chair and come to the realization of that being the last time I'll ever see him. Never again will I peer into those beautiful eyes. Or spend a day in my forest, laughing the terrors of the world away. Never. Either that or try to win the games without killing because if I kill, I'll never really return home. I'd be stuck there, in the arena. My hands would be forever stained with their blood.

Contemplation.

The door opens, I'm looking at a face I didn't fully expect to see. The middle age woman, wearing a plain green dress with long chestnut hair tied into a simple ponytail, closes the door. Tall, muscular because of the heavy boxes and carcasses she carries to and fro her shop. She buys what I bring from the woods. I remember her stern expression turn to something like joy when I brought in the good half of bear remains just a few days ago. Moxie sits next to me, analyzing my face.

"Hi," I manage. She rolls her eyes.

"Come on. Don't 'hi' me boy," says Moxie. "Come here." She puts her arms around me and I do the same. Under Moxie's rough exterior is a kind and caring woman, though I've rarely seen it: interaction with Moxie is filled with sarcasm and playfully crude banter.

"Now how am I going to keep my shop afloat?" she says releasing her embrace.

"I'm sure Leto could help." On a normal day I would have tried a snarky remark.

Moxie starts fishing in her pocket, then produces a necklace. "Here," she says putting the trinket in my hand. On closer examination I see that it's a claw hanging from a thin, leather string. The claw is solid ivory in color. "Got it off that bear you sold me."

"Thank you," I say emotionless. It's a very nice gesture, really, I don't ever recall receiving a gift like this from Moxie. Not even a discount after some seven years of trading.

"A very long time ago, there were people who thought a bear's claw brought good luck." She pauses to wipe her eyes. "Pretty stupid, huh?" she chokes out.

This is too much for Moxie, obviously. Her daughter was killed in the Hunger Games when she was just thirteen. Her husband committed suicide soon after. She had a great life before, though, plenty of money from her small butchery, and from her husband working in a lumber yard. Whose situation is worse I wonder as Moxie saunters out.

I hold the necklace in my hand, staring at it until the door opens. My father stands in the doorway. I didn't even think about him. What does he make of all this?

"Flick," he starts immediately. "I'm sorry."

"For?"

"For everything." No. He's not sorry. He's just trying to make amends before I die. If he really were sorry, he would have said so earlier instead of this last ditch effort to end our feuding. He's too late and I'm not one to lie just to make people feel good about themselves. I remain silent like I have for so long. "I know I haven't been the best father to you," he says after sitting on the couch farthest from me. My father continues on about how sorry he is and how he would change the past if he could.

For whatever reason, I think of a certain tree Leto and I use as a meeting place. It's tall, oddly shaped. The tree has a dent in it. Adding its uncommon angle, it makes for a great windbreaker. I often huddle in its little cubbyhole while waiting for Leto to return with water from a nearby, freshwater spring. Leto's broad shoulders make it impossible for him to fit inside. I remember one time he tried and got stuck in the process.

Peacekeepers knock on the door; his time is up. My father leaves, closing the door quickly behind him. "Good riddance," I say without regret.

After a few minutes of solitude, I am guided into a car. Marla sits beside me, but do not make eye contact. _What's her strategy?_ I wonder. Will she want an alliance or will we be bitter rivals? I don't know if I'd like to be on a team with Marla. She seems like the kill-you-in-your-sleep kind of person. Though, I'm sure everyone is that kind of person if pushed far enough.

And I'm already thinking like a tribute.

A short drive later we're at a train station packed with camera crews. They record us before we step onto the train. Blight and Harva stand next to us. Harva is a statue peering over the crowd fiercely. Blight politely waves to the camera crews. Their recording equipment encases their bodies like armor. I bet they could take a few bullets.

Finally, our group of current and ex-tributes step aboard the train. I'm in awe; taken back by how picturesque the inside of the train looks. And annoyed that the Capitol can afford plush carpets and platinum doorknobs while most of the country starves.

Electra Dellsie finds us and takes us to our rooms that are adjacent to one another. She tells us to wear whatever we want, go anywhere we want. I translate this into, "you are free within this prison".

"Be ready in an hour for dinner," she says bubbly.

Once inside my room I close the door, curiosity takes over and I explore. The clothes in the drawers are overly expensive: one garment could easily keep a single person fed for a week in 7. I remain in my reaping clothes.

I look in the bathroom mirror at my reflection. My hair is slicked back for the reaping. This small detail annoys me so I quickly, roughly run my hands through my hair, then brush it how I normally wear it. I'm back to my scraggly light brown mess. I look so normal, like I could be heading for my woods back home instead of to my death. It calms me. I clean the smudge of dirt on the necklace and hang it around my collar. After some time of sitting on my bed thinking of what horrors await me in the arena, Electra calls me for dinner. Her and I gather up Marla and make our way to the dinning cart. Our mentors have already taken their seats and Electra sits.

"Please, sit." Electra gestures at two empty chairs. Marla and I pause awkwardly before taking our chairs. Our mentors and escort start making small talk as the food comes. Oh, the food. It comes in onslaughts. First a type of meat from what animal I do not know, accompanied by soft bread rolls. Thick gravy for dipping. Then a strong smelling stew with all sorts of things thrown in. It is laced with flower petals that does nothing to hide the powerful scent.

"How's the food?" Blight asks. "There's a lot you can say about the peacocks, but damn, they can cook."

"Excellent. I wish we had stuff like this back home," I say with a tinge of malice. Not sure who it's aimed at. Maybe Electra, she's the most connected to the Capital that is killing me.

"Marla?" Blight asks.

"It's okay."

"Save room for more," Electra says after gently dabbing a napkin on her lips, to clean a spot that wasn't there. I was full after the green noodle pasta with hot, gooey cheese sauce, but I suppose a few extra pounds before the arena would be a good idea. Leto always teases me about how skinny I am.

After supper, the five of us move to a different cart to watch the reaping recap across Panem.

Blight shifts awkwardly, Electra forces her body closer to the TV, Harva still as always. It starts with District 1. The two tributes volunteer for the original ones, same with District 2. No surprise there. An atrocity from District 6 as a small twelve-year-old girl named Hope with blonde pigtails is reaped. Her mother runs for her and is beaten down. The girl can't hold back a single tear. The pair from 10 look like they could be related, twins even. Same black hair and sea-green eyes. Same unforgivably skinny figure; neither of them could weigh more than hundred pounds. This isn't all that uncommon: related tributes. Makes for better television. A young boy is reaped in 11, but his older brother takes his place. The commentator says, "Must of wanted some glory for himself."

Blight yawns loudly. "I'm tired. Off to bed I go," he says leaving the cart.

"Hm," Electra commands. "He must have had a long day, yes?" She's covering for Blight so he doesn't look like a neanderthal going to bed at six p.m.

"I think I'll hit the hay," I say with a fake yawn. "I've had a long, too, as I'm sure you can imagine." Partially because I am tired, but mostly to annoy Electra Dellsie. I wonder if she knows that she's an accomplice to murder here? She does know that real human lives are at stake? Back in 7 we had competitions that pinned two roosters against each other. I never condoned it, and often preached about how cruel it was. It was a fight to the death, people placed bets. Just like the Hunger Games. Is that what Electra thinks we are? Just animals whose only purpose is to fight for her entertainment? If that is the case then it must be so ingrained in her mind by now, that thinking anything else would be just as neanderthal as Blight's sleeping patterns. Is everyone in the Capitol this ignorant?

In my room, I remove my clothes and slip under the warm sheets. How can they be this hot? Probably some Capital technology.

Surprisingly, I fall asleep quickly. But the nightmares are terrible. "Brings good luck," says Moxie just before she transforms into a bear and rips me to shreds. I kill the girl from 6 in the worst ways possible. I scream myself awake, pulling on the covers violently.

After some time of having a form of panic attack about the whole situation I'm in, I start making sense of how I am to get out of this alive. If I can get a lot of sponsors then I might be able to outlast the others. And if I am confronted, I'll run. I'm faster than any others in school. I must take this one step at a time. First, get sponsors. Second, arena.


	3. Three

Three uppity females peck around my body searching for anything to change about my appearance. My prep team they call themselves. The have all kinds of these tortuous tools they keep insisting are "specifically designed for the job".

"You're so much cuter than the last year's tribute!" the one with orange hair squawks. Last year's male tribute was decked in scars from working in the mills for most his life. My hair is cut to a 'desired length', this doesn't phase me as much as I thought it would. Sponsors are sponsors and hair will grow.

"You're so right, Celesty!" squeals the silver-tattooed girl who files my fingernails into perfect ovals. Who is going to see my fingernails and have that be their deciding factor whether to sponsor me or not? Is the Capital so centered around appearance, that fingernails take precedence over human qualities? "Keep your eyes open wide now, deary."

"What is that?" I ask as she holds a clear film the size of a marble's hemisphere close to my eye.

"It's your contact lens, silly," the most disturbing looking one says. Her eyelashes are five-inches long. When she blinks, they leave trails of sparkles that linger in the air. How does she see with them? "Foxer has your whole tribute parade scheme planned out. You'll be a star!" Great. I always wanted a bunch of rainbow bodied freaks thinking I'm cute.

It takes a few tries, and a lot of cursing, my lenses are finally in and the orange-haired one holds up a mirror so I can see them. My pupils, irises, sclera are snow-white. I'm startled at first because I look dead almost. Like I'm about to be dropped in a coffin and buried.

"Phenomenal!" says the eyelash fiend. "Now wait here. Foxer will be in shortly to assess you and dye your hair."

"I can't wait!" Orange Hair and Silverface hug and jump up and down. "You'll do amazingly!" Then the three finally leave.

I sit for some time looking in the mirror at my ghostly eyes. The door opens. A man walks in the posh, steel room. His copper hair is slicked back, his light brown eyes are practically red. "Foxer," he says, extending a hand that I shake tentatively.

"Flick," I say, looking at all the products on the shelves. Creams and tools all to enhance one's looks. How pointless all of it is my world. Looks don't matter, not even fingernails. What matters is feeding yourself and keeping yourself alive. "But I'm sure you already knew that," I say.

"Indeed I did," he says getting a bottle from a shelf. "Please, come lay down over here." I do so as he turns the faucet on and starts working the silky, white cream into my now short hair.

"So, what's my tribute parade scheme?" I say it with much less verve than the peacocks.

"Well, as your stylist, I am supposed to capture your district's essence in your costume."

"I'm not going as I tree, am I?"

"Oh heavens no," he laughs. "Flick, tell me what your district does."

I'm sure he already knows, but I tell him anyways. "For the most part, we cut down trees, and turn them to parchment."

"And what do we do with parchment?" I don't answer. Where is he going with all this? "We write on it. Well, some still do. I do. I'll let the outfit do the talking."

Foxer finishes dying my hair. It turns out to be just as white as my eyes. Thankfully, he tells me it will wash out. He then puts another type of goo in my hair. This one hold it in place; freezing it in all different directions, like horrible bed-head.

I'm glad Marla is wearing the same get-up as I am when I arrive at the bottom floor of the Remake Center, so if this whole thing doesn't pan out I won't be the only one who looks ridiculous in front of the whole country. She wears a white unitard like mine and the same hair, the same eyes as me. Though, her do doesn't have the splay quality my does. I give her a reassuring nod. She stays just as stone-faced as ever, will nothing shake her? But maybe it's better that we're at ends. A friend is the last thing I need now.

We step on the chariot, which will be pulled by four horses. Two are white, two are black. We have horses back in District 7, but only Peacekeepers and the overly wealthy have them. And they are nowhere near as majestic as these beasts. Usually mangy, dirty, bot fly ridden things.

"Now," says Foxer, flanked by a short woman who I believe is Marla's stylist. She looks just as ridiculous as my prep team. "I want both of you to look straight ahead. Don't smile or wave. Nothing, just look ferocious." This is good because I'm not too proficient at appearing happy well I am truly not.

"Ferocious," Marla echos.

The Panem anthem starts booming all around. "Ferocious," Foxer confirms. "They'll love it."

The District 1 chariot rides off, carrying a fire/ice combo of tributes. The second gets in place and all of a sudden I'm freaking out; butterflies erupt in my stomach. All of the possible bad and embarrassing things that could happen. The second team fly into the crowd-filled streets when Foxer turns our costumes on via remote control.

Holograms of black letters swirl around me, around us. All the letters in the alphabet, in a font you'd see in a very old, important ledger. Some moving fast, others slow. Most fly through my body, which is a weird feeling because they look totally solid. We illuminate the dark area around us. "Whoa" is all I can say.

"Perfect," says Marla's stylist. "You did great, Foxer."

"Get in potion," he says adjusting our stances. "Arms crossed. There, perfect. Looks like Six is leaving. Alright, no smiling, look straight. You'll do great."

Then the horses begin their journey into the city. I thought the anthem was noisy, the citizens are twice as loud. Hooting and hollering for their favorites. I even hear my name called a good amount, this gives me hope. Surely someone will sponsor a boy with perfect fingernails from the poor District 7. I want to smile, but I follow Foxer's directions and remain as still as a corpse.

The twelve chariots slow to a stop in front of President Snow's mansion. I stay just as still and ferocious as I have been. The president gives the formal welcome to the tributes and announces the official start of the sixty-sixth Hunger Games. His voice thunders louder than the anthem and citizens.

After a long applause the chariots ride towards the Training Center, which will act as home for the twenty-four tributes. But I highly doubt I will feel at home once there. The Capitol is the polar opposite of my woods in District 7.

We ride the elevator with the fire/ice duo from District 1. She's dressed in a skin-tight, frosty blue suit with a deep V neck. It gives off billows of what represents chilly mist. Spikes that resemble ice crystals deck her arms, legs, torso. Silky yellowish hair spills over her head and shoulders like flowing sap. All he wears for clothes are snug, red trousers, completely revealing his well defined upper body. His blazing leggings smolder and a synthetic steam. The elevator quickly fills with thick the mixing smokes.

"Can you turn those things off, please?" I ask them.

"Sure," she says after a chuckle. Two flips of the switches and the room is soon smoke free.

"Thanks."

"I'm Glitz," she explains. "This is Gaius." I trail off as soon as I see his eyes. They are, maybe I'm just a little homesick, exactly like Leto's. The same piercing blue color, intense and gentle all at once. Just the sight of them make me yearn for my comrade. Besides his eyes, he couldn't be further from Leto's appearance. Bleach blond versus night black. Lean versus stocky. Still, the thought of my hunting partner causes heartbreaking nostalgia.

"See you at training," Glitz says in my haze.

"See you at training," I affirm.

The door closes and the elevator continues its ascent. "You do realize that they are the enemy?" Marla scolds. Irrefutably will the tributes of Districts 1, 2, and 4 join the ranks of the Careers. The better fed and much richer districts. These districts take glory in competing in the Hunger Games, whereas, the other districts think of it as an execution. They rally together at the beginning of the games to take on their weaker adversaries. The majority of victors have, for the past sixty-five years, been from one of the Career districts.

"Of course I do," I say. "I'm just showing them that I'm not scared."

"I'm not scared," says Marla firmly.

"You certainly looked scared, hiding in the corner there."

"You don't know what you're talking about," she shoots. "You don't know me."

The conversation dies there.

We reach the seventh floor and the praise begins. Electra and Marla's stylist both plant a kiss on my cheek. Blight claps me on the back. Harva manages a grin. "You two were great," Electra complements. "Everyone is talking about the fierce tributes from District 7." Sponsors, is all I can think.

Foxer steps through the gaggle that's formed. "You two were simply amazing. I am so proud of both of you."

"Yes, yes," Electra breaks in. "Now you two change and get ready for dinner."

Marla and her stylist trot off to her quarters while Foxer takes me under his arm and guides me to mine. "Thank you," I say.

"For?"

"Making me shine," I tell him as we enter my room. It's similar to my room on the train, but larger. Larger than three of my District 7 houses.

"Well, now that you have their attention, don't let them forget you." I nod. Foxer picks out what I am to wear to dinner. I know he's my stylist and all, but does he have to pick out everything I wear? He helps me take out my contact lenses. More cursing. After a quick shower to remove the white from my hair, I change into what Foxer has chosen just to be nice. I think that the goo has permanently tinged my hair a shade lighter so it's a bit closer to blonde now.

I take my seat at the dinner table and the glorious food comes. The main course is a roasted pig that just bursts with flavor. Blight pours me a glass of bubbly liquid. Champagne he tells me. My father adores the stuff. Whenever he can scrounge up enough money, or take coin from my stash, he spoils himself. I've never tried it, though. Usually because he downs it so quickly I don't get the chance to be curious. But I indulge on the fizzy golden drink. Blight laughs as I cringe at the dry and sour flavor. How does my father drink the raunchy district version?

Dessert is served: a rich chocolate cake, coupled with something they're calling ice cream. "So," says Blight as an Avox, the tongueless servants of the Capitol, cuts me another piece of the mouthwatering cake. "I suppose we should talk about training. Would you like to be coached together?" He belches.

"No," Marla proclaims. My look towards her relieves what could very well be a death stare. How quickly she made up her mind makes me think...maybe I haven't payed enough attention to my district partner. Maybe Marla Curt is a bigger threat than I had realized at the reaping. Maybe this scrawny blonde girl will be a real contender. Harva's eyes are glued to her. "I will mentor Marla," she states. Her voice is so cold.

"Well, I get this little rascal, then," Blight says roughing up my hair with his alcohol smelling hand. Electra sits pursing her lips at Blight's behavior. His constant dropping of the silverware. Belching. Slurred words. He's had too many drinks.

"Well, it's time for bed," says Electra, trying to hide that her statement is aimed at Blight wholeheartedly.

Harva and Marla leave talking, plotting, which is completely unfair, seeing that I get a drunken loon to plot with. I will have a stern talking to with Blight in the morning about his drinking. I lead myself to my quarters, after a sip of Blight's champagne to see if he got a different flavor than I did. I'm still perplexed by how anyone could like the stuff.

After striping down to my underwear, not even glancing at what's in the drawers, I squirm into bed, the covers just as warm as the ones in the train, quelling my goosebumps. The thought of the boy from District 1, leaves Leto fresh in my mind. Fresh in my mind are all of our adventures in the woods. The jokes, the dangers we faced. The lessons back and forth. His intricate snares he weaves so flawlessly, his expert tracking skills; the way his can look at a faded print in the mud and instantly know what animal, when, speed. My best friend...what is he doing this moment? Is he in peaceful sleep? Or awake, aching for my return like I am now?

The thought of an eventful trip in the woods comes back to me, and I get up to see if the physical scars are still there. The mirror reveals the two mangled spot on my abdomen. The rippled skin is rough to the touch, and it takes me back to that bloodcurdling day.

It was an abnormally hot summer day. I remember this because of the sweat drops on mine and Leto's faces that had to wiped away not it interfere with our vision. We each tied bandanas to our foreheads. Last summer, some days after the reaping. Leto and I were heading back home with a full bag of game and plums from our favorite tree. The plum trees were past the threshold of familiarity and safety we decided on, but they were so ripe and juicy at the time. We couldn't resist.

We were only a few hundred yards away from District 7, I could see thick factory smoke billowing into the sky, when Leto heard it. He held up his hand: what we always do when one of us hears something the other doesn't. I pulled out two knifes from my belt, holding one in a throwing position. Leto took his bow from his shoulder and loaded an arrow. He prefers a bow over knives. Says knives aren't as accurate and have less range. I usually retaliate saying it's the user, not the weapon. Though I'd favor throwing knives over a bow and arrow any day I've still practiced with a bow, per Leto's taunting. Quite a good shot too.

Anyways, I asked, "Snow fox?"

"Bigger, more than one," Leto whispered. I swear Leto is part bat, how he could hear these things was beyond me.

Snow foxes are around year long. Most bears travel down the valley in the summers to catch fish. The only other option were wild dogs, rabids is the local name for them, though I always thought they were closer to wolves because of how strong and organized there are. We had crossed paths with a few of them before, but nothing like this would turn out to be.

"There." I pointed at a grey shape in the green brush about ten yards away. Leto saw it too. It started to growl. I could see its horrid jagged teeth. "Let's see if we can avoid a fight," I said in a whisper. We both knew what this meant. To try looking like weren't challenging it, we held our bodies diagonally to the beast and did not look directly at it. This usually works if we're facing just one, but then he spotted another behind us.

"We have to kill them," said Leto softly. "On my mark...three, two, one!" I heard the arrow cut through the air and then a whimper from the first beast. I threw my knife, it stuck into the second's neck.

"More?" I asked.

"Yes." Another rustle and another arrow into what I thought was just a bush. A dying rabid's whine confirmed its death.

All of a sudden, the world was alive with rustling, yelps and us spotting the attacking creatures. The throw of a knife or the firing of an arrow meant another rabid's death. But they kept coming. We must have taken down five before the first one made contact. A large male rushed at me while I was unarmed. I had just taken a knife out when it tackled me to the ground. I deflected its gnashing mouth long enough to stab the creature in its neck, but not long enough to prevent its claws from digging into my abdomen. I let out a screech when its ragged nails pierced my skin. Leto turned at once and I watched as a runt bit his ankle and him falling to the ground. He pulled out an arrow from his quiver, rabid still attached to him, and plunged it weapon into the beast's neck.

"Anymore?" I asked, only thinking that Leto could easily of picked something up from the attack. Rabids are infamous for carrying a multitude of diseases. Just being around one is deadly.

"No. I don't know," he rushed. "Are you okay?"

"Fine," I said not even looking at my affliction. "We have to get to Moxie." Moxie was the only one with any medical experience for miles. And the only one who would help us for free. But I later found that the charge would be three squirrels and a whole deer. We didn't even get the pelts.

We stand, but it's apparent Leto can't walk on his own. I got on the side of his wound and he put his arm around me. Using me as a crutch, we hobbled out of the forest leaving the bodies, weapons, and food we gathered behind. Leto protested, but I insisted that we can come back for them. That our lives were much more important.

My wound caused me pain with every step and I stole myself to look at it. Two puncture holes the diameter of my smallest finger. Blood poured from them, my undershirt was drenched in no time. We left a dotted trail of blood as we walked.

We got to Moxie's just in time, because when we arrived Leto collapsed onto a chair from pain and exhaustion. I leaned on a table to brace myself.

"What happened?" She spat the words with urgency.

"Rabids," I heaved. "A whole pack."

"Injuries?"

"Claw wound." I held my hand over my stomach. "Left ankle bite." I motioned to Leto. "You can help us, right?" I pleaded, begged almost.

She quickly examined me, then went to Leto, seemingly much more concerned with Leto. "Bandage yourself up, Flick. You're going back into the woods."

"For what?"

She went to the other room to get the her medical supplies. Dumping a box on the table frantically, she took a bottle of disinfectant and a cloth. "Hurry, Flick," she ordered. I was overcome with fear for Leto and lazily wrapped a bandage around my waist. "There's something we need." She paused, dabbing the cloth on his bite, Leto gripping the sides of the chair all the time. "Something I don't have. I'll get you a drawing."

"Is he infected with something?" I asked, securing the bandage. In answer she pointed to Leto's wound. Yet again, I stole myself to inspect his ankle. The whole area was pale: lack of blood. Surrounding the four holes was a horrible shade of red, not from blood but from heat, dying muscle. I didn't know.

Moxie slammed a heavy book down on the table and Leto whimpered like the rabids when a blade or arrow entered their bodies. "Here," she said. "Fool's Feet." I examined the picture as best I could. I still remember the thick, twirly, black crawlers that grow at the base of old trees. The buds that never bloom due to lack of sunlight.

I went to give Leto a reassuring pat on the arm before I left, but he forcefully grabbed my hand and began speaking gibberish, nothing he was saying made any sense. Like baby talk. Right then I was genuinely scared for Leto's life. I looked at Moxie with total distress. "Go, boy!" she yelled. I didn't need to be told twice.

The bandage helped a little, but pain shot through me relentlessly with every stride. My blood covered hands trembled. I overcame it for Leto.

The smell of blood and wet dog was very noticeable once inside the woods. I retrieved a few knifes from the lifeless rabids in the event of another attack. Thankfully, that didn't happen. I searched for the correct trees, for Fools's Feet. I estimated twenty minutes had gone by since my arrival, maybe time goes by faster when a friends life is at stake. It was fruitless in efforts at that point.

My sympathy for the fallen creatures could soon turn to empathy.

In my adamant attempt to find this life preserving plant, I gave myself a break. I had been stumbling around clutching my stomach in pain. Resting my back on a tree, I told myself, one minute breather. Then get back to work. But I didn't take up that minute because looking down at my feet I found the elusive plant.

Staggered by pain, I returned to Moxie's house, breathless when I arrived. Moxie had gotten Leto flat on the table where he laid shivering. She stood still, but jumped right into action when she saw me. "Chew them," she instructed. I was much too weak to question her. She popped a tendril into her mouth and I did the same.

Moxie spat it into her hand and started rubbing the mush onto Leto's ankle bite, which was the color of mashed, undeveloped green beans. "Do the same to yourself."

"Doesn't Leto need as much as he can get?" I asked, hazy from blood loss. My bandage had bled through by then.

"No," she said while applying the paste to Leto who didn't seem to improve. "Too much can kill you. Fool's Feet spreads an infection of its own, eradicating any existing infection. The new infection only causes hallucinations and dehydration."

I put the mush on my stomach wounds and watched Moxie work. Leto had lost consciousness and laid there motionless. I didn't remember going to sleep. The most likely scenario is that I, too, lost consciousnesses. But I awoken to Leto staring at me. I checked my wound and saw that it had been cleaned, and the outside was tinted green from Fool's Feet. "How are you feeling?" Leto asked me.

"Thirsty," I told him. My tongue was sandpaper to the touch. Leto handed my a jug of water. I drank it swiftly. I was so occupied on the water that I didn't notice Leto hanging his head over a bucket. "What's wrong?"

"The infection." He then promptly vomited.

Leto and I spent the next week fighting the new infection. Vomiting. Hydrating as best we could. I remember wondering if the rabid's infection was better than the Fool's Feet's. One night of expelling all our stomach contents mercilessly, Leto had said "You're cute when you sleep."

"Great, the infection's gotten to your head," I threw back. Then, in unison, we emptied our stomachs full of only water. The house reeked of bile for a month.

Our delusion ran rampant. Moxie had to leave the house because we were screaming at the cupboards to give us food. Laughing at the little men who stole our silver coins, neither of which existed.

What I would give to go back to the day, live it again just how it was, only once before the arena.


	4. Four

Morning shows too soon.

I'm in the shower trying to find the shampoo button, but I instead find temperature switch. Letting out a yelp-an octave too high-I give up on my quest of cleanliness. I dress quickly, wearing what I did last night for dinner. The outfit isn't dirty or anything. As if clean clothes were the worst of my problems.

At breakfast Blight hangs his head in pain, flinching at every clank of silverware. I hear Marla talking with her mentor quietly as I approach the dining room, and they stop at once when I enter the room. Electra, looking mad as ever, checking her makeup in a pocket mirror after every bite of food. I briskly, but steadily-not to upset Electra further-consume a bowl of oats. "What time does training start?" I ask, mostly to cut the tense atmosphere.

"Ten o'clock," Electra says. "But we should leave soon. Many districts get down there early, you know." I wouldn't doubt if the next words out of her mouth were a death threat directly to Blight. He's surely the reason for her anger.

"Marla, we're going now," says Harva, eyeing me as if I'm about to stab her. The three females stand.

"I'll catch up."

"Very well, young man," she says eyeing Blight. Electra obviously sees that I'm about to give Blight a piece of my mind.

"Hey." He ignores me. "Hey!" I yell and thump a fork down on a plate. It makes a desired noise, a tactic I often used against my father if I absolutely had to wake him after a binge.

"What?" he groans.

"You need to start acting more like my mentor. You know, planning my strategy, getting me sponsors, keeping me alive," I say with as much venom I can muster. With my life on the line, he sits in the blur of a hangover.

Just like my father, I think, letting the phrase bounce around in my head.

The comparison angers me so much, I storm out of the room and wish the elevator had a door to slam. I don't need either of you, I tell myself. I'm doing just fine on my own.

The door opens and someone pins a cloth square with the number 7 on my back. Everyone has been waiting for the last of the tributes to arrive. Seeing that I am the last tribute to show, all eyes are fixed on me. The head trainer, a tall and commanding woman named Atala, starts the instructions. I'm trying to pay attention, but the same persistent eyes keep on at me; the imposing boy from District 2 holds his gaze at me and I don't drop mine; my outburst at Blight has me filled with a false strength I'll milk until it wears.

Here, on flat ground and no flamboyant costumes, I'm able to look at the others in a new light. I will gravitate around their deaths in three days, counting them off and wondering who's left. I can only hope the deaths are clean and painless, but that's not how the Hunger Games work.

Atala finishes up the rules and procedures. "Do not ignore the survival skills. Many of you will die from infection, exposure, hunger, dehydration. A sword may look useful now, but in a weeks time a clean bottle of water will be just as appealing."

Most of the tributes go for the weapon training stations first. I decide to start out small to figure out my own strategy, clear my mind. The Fire Making Station is my first stop. In District 7, I had little use for making fire. I was plenty warm in a jacket made of furs and thick fabrics. It would have been foolish to do so anyway: smoke from the fire would have been a huge spectacle. The Peacekeepers would be so quick to search it, and whoever was found would receive at least twenty lashes, tied up in the gallows for all to see. I've seen worse punishments, though. Hangings and death from whipping infections are not uncommon. There was one woman once, she came into town basically parading her spoils she got from the woods. Peacekeepers killed her on the spot.

At any rate, the instructor teaches me of many ways to start fires, though, I only listen about half the time since I'm formulating tactics. After I mastered and got bored of making fires, I move to a different station. Ready with a plan.

As I change stations I notice the Gamemakers. Twenty purple-robed men and women who sit at an elevated area. Watching the tributes, eating a feast. They will give a score of 1 through 12 based on three days of training and the private sessions.

The knifes at the Knife Throwing Station are marvelous. Some are solid reflective metal, others have only metal edges for easier throwing but less impact. Even some star-shaped weapons that I steer away from because I don't want any chance of looking weak right now.

I claim a belt with a score of lightweight knifes with precise curves and grooves for arrow dynamics. I hook it around my waist and as I grip one of the uniform knifes. Then I notice something peculiar. Across the gym, the girl from last night, Glitz, is looking at me. Even after eye contact is made, we continue this staring contest. This fits into my plan perfectly: to appear a threat to the other players. Perhaps that will make them wary of confronting me, or I could just be painting a target on my back. But I'm content with my plan. It's all I have, really.

Without looking away from her, I throw a knife at the targets down range, demanding the knife to hit its target. I'll look like a total fool if it doesn't. I hear the knife hit something and turn to see it lodged in a silhouette's stomach.

I leave the smirk on my face and continue throwing. Showing up every tribute, even the instructor, I destroy this station. The tributes from District 3 leave after a while.

"Lucky throw there, Flick," Glitz, who appeared without my notice, says. I don't remember telling her my name... But that doesn't reveal much, seeing that I could name off every tribute here.

"Luck? Not sure about that," I say confidently.

"Sure." She takes a knife from my belt and throws it. It sinks directly into another silhouette's heart. I give her look that suggests she did a good job. I then take two from my belt and throw them in rapid succession. Each skewer an eye of the target.

The lunch bell rings.

"You should sit my friends and me," Glitz proposes. I'm taken back by the offer but keep my cool.

"Sounds good to me. The girl from my district is a recluse." Glitz guides me to the Career's table. However, I make sure not to call them that. Surely they know about the poorer districts' nickname, which they might find insultive. To be on the safe side I leave 'Career' out of my vocabulary. I'm led to a group that contains all six Careers. When we start eating, I force myself to avoid eye contact with Gaius.

"Is that all you do? Throw knifes?" the brutish boy from District 2 questions, the one who was trying to stare me down earlier.

"No," I say, unmeaningly commanding the whole groups' attention. "I can use a bow, I'm fast, I know plants." I find myself being utterly arrogant with the description of my skills, and stop talking. Just like the rabids in the woods, I don't want them to think I'm challenging them. Actually I don't what I want them to think. I have a vague idea that I'd like them to accept me to their group. That seems doubtful. But is it? Glitz invited me here, that suggest she has influence within the group. The bulk of the six appear to be hanging on my words, interested in my prowess.

More likely than not, they just want a strong competitor taken out quickly.

"Fast?" the dark skinned girl form 4 asks. "I'd like to see that."

"The Gauntlet looks fun," I say to her. "I'll show you there."

The Gauntlet. An obstacle course where one must jump from platform to platform that raise and lower all the time. Sandbags are swung at the tributes to make the ordeal even more difficult. The platform's highest point is twenty feet. The floor's padded but a fall could knock the wind out of you easily.

The seven of us move to The Gauntlet after lunch. I notice Marla lingering at the tables. Marla Curt, so quick to take the defensive while I'm out making allies and enemies alike. Surely a strong alliance is my best bet of winning this thing, but will a knife in my sleep be my undoing? Could making these alleged friends backfire? Not if I stay on my guard...

Now I'm wondering how Harva is coaching her. I'd love to know what her plan is. Knowledge is power after all.

At The Gauntlet, Bast, the girl from before, says, "Well, come on then. Show us what you've got." I hop to the starting platform, which is stationary. A few sandbags start their course, up close the they're much bigger, about the size of a man's torso. One hit could easily knock you off the platform, which are just as wide as the crude pendulums. "Scared, are we?" Bast taunts.

"No," I retort. "Just waiting for the right moment."

"Well, we don't have all day, now do we?"

My face gets hot as a realize that I am taking too long. That second I jump the next stage, almost throwing me off because of its jerky movements. I hear a giggle behind me. Stop thinking, I order myself. Just do it! You're looking like a fool! I leap to the next and quickly have to continue on because of a sandbag coming my way. The next platform is much too high to go for and I have to time my jump so that I don't get smashed by the sandbag.

It seems like forever later when I'm standing on the finishing area. I clutch my side: it was hit by a high-velocity sandbag that nearly knocked me over. I'm sure I'll be rewarded with a bruise soon enough.

"Well done," the boy from District 4 congratulates me.

"What was the time?" Bast asks one of the trainers.

"Thirty-two seconds," he calls out. "Close to beating the record."

"I can do better," Bast says, almost to herself.

She tries, they all do, but none surpass my score. Glitz comes close, but then she gets pummeled by a sandbag at the end. "If you're done now," I say to the lot. "I think I'll hit archery." Gaius and Victory from 2, a girl with a shaven head and a cantankerous personality, join me for archery. He's pretty good, if he's aiming at a still target. She's completely clueless.

"Forget this!" she yells, throwing the weapon down in rage and walking off. What a temper. As I watch her storm away to her district partner, I see the girl from District 6. The twelve year old with the pigtails. She works at the Knot-Tying Station with her dainty hands. How did no one take her place? How can the eligible girls of 6 be so selfish to throw away this baby's life before it has even started? But would I have volunteer for a twelve year old boy? There was one a few years ago and I didn't even give it a second thought. So I guess I can

t be throwing around blame.

I try to pick up a few useful skills. Camouflage, knot-tying, shelter-building. But the Careers are always at the combative stations, and forming a relationship with them is primary. For the most part, they only do stations they excel at, to intimidate the other tributes. Rekker, from District 2, is a monster with spear-throwing and hand-to-hand. I surprise myself and do decently at the latter. Brill, the boy from 4 keeps an open mind and does a some survival stations with me. He's kind, and can nail a target at twenty feet with an axe. Brill is very calm, or at least calmer than the others. Nothing at all like the fearfulness and tenseness the other tributes display openly. Whereas the other Careers boast about their excellence, Brill keeps the same modest manor. Even though he could boast just as much as the others. Towards the end of the day, he dares me to do the Edible Insect Station that hasn't been visited by a single tribute all day.

He snickers as I choose the wrong bug. I shudder at the feeling of its long, severed legs wiggling around in my mouth. The taste doesn't help, and my lunch almost makes a reappearance. The whole time Brill is cracking up, I give him a friendly shove. Within his storm of laughter his balance is off and he falls to the ground. After making sure he's not mad I say, "I hope there aren't any bugs in the arena." I extend a hand to help him to his feet, a little shocked that I could joke about that place.

"I kind of do," Brill says. "You could be the taste tester."

"Ha-ha," I say sarcastically.

The first day of training concludes. Dinner starts. Dinner ends. Blight proposes we speak privately on the balcony. I accept.

Electra told me that this balcony used to be a flower garden of sorts in earlier years but was abandoned because a larger one was made on the roof. It is accessible to Districts 6 and 7, but areas have been separated so said districts can't interact. He leans against the railing. Wind cuts through my thin clothes and I shiver within the time I join Blight by the edge. He notices my presence but doesn't acknowledged me.

"What's stopping me from jumping over?" I ask over the sounds of traffic below us. I'm sure it's been in the minds of past tributes. Didn't I use the same mindset back in 7? Starving verses breaking laws that would earn me a quick bullet? A drawn out death in front of everyone verses a swift one.

"A force field," he says plainly, then picks up a shard of a flower pot and tosses it over the balcony. A sharp zap and a small spark. The shard flies back to the deck and shatters into a thousand pieces.

"Oh." The words come out boringly, but I am thoroughly amazed at this technology. Why doesn't the Capitol put this around the districts. Sure would keep me from the forests. "What did you want to talk about?" I ask, knowing the answer.

"Well," he starts. "I am sorry about how things went down this morning. And I would like to help you." The comparison I made this morning is still fresh and painful in my mind like a reopened wound.

"I don't really need you," I say harshly. "I seem to be doing fine on my own."

"But you do need me. Please trust me. You don't want to be pushing away help right now."

"Don't tell me what I need!" My anger for my father comes to me instead of whatever I feel towards Blight and I realize I have the urge to rant of how he's let me down countless times and I can't imagine why I've been supporting him for so long. That I wish he were gone.

Blight must see my brain's inner workings and puts his hand on my shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"Don't touch me!" I push him away and walk back into the building. He calls my name but I rush to my room and lock the door. The tears come when my head lands on the pillow. "I overreacted," I say to myself. "I never overreact." It's a weird feeling, yelling at someone when you wish they were a different person. Like you don't even know who you're talking to.

Maybe I'm losing it already.

Breakfast goes by quickly. I don't eat anything, but I stir coffee relentlessly, taking few sips. A glance at Blight reveals his icy blue eyes that say he's sorry and I am finally able to see him without my thinking of my father. He looks genuinely sad instead enraged the we're out of spirits. I don't want to apologize in front of everybody, maybe at all. I always hated apologizing to people as a child. I've grown out of it a bit but there's still a sting of knowing I was wrong when I apologize.

Electra orders everyone into the elevator but Blight tells her we'll be down in a second. I bite my lip. I really shouldn't be throwing away help. "What did you do yesterday, in terms of interacting with the other tributes?" Blight asks when we hear the elevator door shut.

"I-I mostly trained with..." I trail off. Surely Blight will think I have done the stupidest thing. Revealing all of my skills, painting a bullseye on my head. Now I'm realizing that I've done something irredeemably foolish. Before the Games even start and I'm dead! "With the Careers," I finish, spitting the words out.

"That's a harsh gamble," he says. "What do you mean train? Did they talk to you? How did they act?" I explain how yesterday went. The episodes with Glitz at the Knife Throwing Station, Bast at The Gauntlet, and Brill at Edible Insects. "Well, don't give them any provocation. Be friendly, but confident. And try to pick up as many new skills as you can," Blight says in my astonishment. "Just remember that only one comes out of there." I nod sturdily.

Blight puts his hand on my shoulder and guides me to the elevator. And yet again, I am the last to arrive.

Training starts, and I follow the tributes of District 4 to the First Aid Station where we learn about warding off infection and how to treat deep appendage cuts. Bast tries to one-up me at every chance. Perspiration gathers on her forehead as she bandages the high-tech dummy's leg. "You went too fast," the instructor says. "It's much too tight. Circulation is compromised, and the leg would be lost at best." Bast sighs heavily and pulls her frizzy, black hair into a single plait, then asks for a do-over.

Brill and I walk away. "She has this perseverance you have to admire," I say as Brill hands me a hollow spear for throwing.

I suspected it yesterday, but now I am certain that the Gamemaker with the labyrinth of tattoos on his bald head is watching me. Every time I look over-which is about every thirty seconds-he's either chewing away at some expensive animal or focused on me.

The days pass intensely. Whenever Harva or Marla aren't around, Blight and Electra have me recite all I did. How the Careers acted, how the other tributes size up. Most non-Career tributes are quite inferior, and I quickly write them off as blood bath victims. But Blight instantly tells me that they could be the ones to beat this year. "Only a few years ago did a tribute get a three for his training score," Blight tells me. "He was crowned victor only after four days of the game. Took out nearly half the competition." The boy from 11, who's called Malus, the one who volunteered for his brother, looks like quite the competitor. Muscular, managed to complete The Gauntlet without being thrown off. I had a great view of him destroying the targets at the Sword Fighting Station while on it myself with Glitz and Bast, per Bast's request. But it's the lithe girl from 12 that really catches my eye. She's an expert with plants, demolishing the station with ease. Her skill is congruent with the Camouflage and Fire Making Stations, but I never see her at any of the combat stations.

On the last day of training, I stand on good terms with the Careers. I allow Rekker, the boy from 2, to show me up at spear throwing-which isn't hard. Same with Bast at The Gauntlet. She shouted joyfully after I took a dive. Just to assist in the idea that I am I good addition but not better than them at everything. Glitz cordially invites me to their ranks at the end of the third day.

It's official: I'm a Career.

* * *

><p>Author's note: a huge thanks to Radio Free Death on another in depth review, keep it coming.<p> 


	5. Five

The Careers all score sevens, eights and nines. Glitz gets the best score of ten. The little girl from 6, Hope, gets a two. I also get a ten, tied with Glitz. All I did was throw some knifes and shoot arrows, but so few tributes could use a bow with efficiency. I must have been the best. Marla gets only a four, but as Blight said, she could be hiding her talent to kill. The boy of District 11 gets an eight and the girl of 12 gets a seven: the two best scores of a non-Career tribute.

At dinner, Electra tries to strike up a conversation about some celebrity here in the Capitol. Foxer and Marla's stylist participate, but when the chat is directed to Blight and Harva they shut her out so fast you might think Electra was asking for a few organs. "Come on, you can't tell me that neither of you haven't even seen any of his performances on television!" she guffaws. Her face turns serious. "You do have televisions don't you?"

"Yes we do, Electra," says an annoyed Blight. On my government issued device back in 7 we only get propaganda and Hunger Games news and the Hunger Games themselves. I'm sure at the sublime Victor's Village televisions have something else than strictly monitored programs. So the victors may have the option to watch this famous figure, but I surely wouldn't if I had the choice.

Now I'm thinking of what life I would live if I were born to Capitol blood. Would I watch this performer and ogle at his talent; would I have gotten altercations done by this age? Maybe implant some precious jewels into my skin, or a full-body tattoo depicting a fight scene of my favorite Games. But of course, I wouldn't have the same look of disgust I do now if I lived in the Capitol. Maybe my biggest fear would be a boring Hunger Games.

"Tomorrow is interview prep. My favorite!" Electra spews as we dismiss from the table, and leave for our rooms. "Be ready extra, extra early!"

I try to sleep but my eyes are hell bent on staying open. In attempt to get some vital rest, I order a cup of tea from the voice box machine. One simply says the name of a food or beverage and seconds later it appears. But the tea is much too different than I'm used to. I try ordering again, being much more specific this time. No, it's wrong too: so bitter and the taste it leaves in my mouth is revolting. I don't know if it's the flavor of the tea or the lingering sting of the Capitol's complete superiority over the districts that makes me throw the cup across the room. It hits a white wall, staining it green where the glass shatters.

A knock on my door seconds later that I don't respond to. The door opens, an Avox walks in. He takes survey of what's happened and begins to pick up the shards of glass. "No, just leave it." He looks up at me with worried eyes then continues collecting the pieces. "I said go! I don't want you!" He gets up and exits the room quietly. The closing of the door makes me fall back on the bed. I get little sleep, and what sleep I do manage is brimming with nightmares. Rekker chases me down a narrow hallway, when I discover the wall in my path, he laughs like a madman. He finally reveals the devilish blade and I scream.

"Now," Electra orders, "sit like I am." I copy her pose: legs crossed with laced fingers over the top knee. Then she has me repeat absurd, vulgar things with a straight face for a while.

"I ate a bucket of pig's eyes this morning. Did you know that I have a stack of human hearts in my cupboard? Both taste great lightly boiled." I beam. Certainly this will be of no use. Really, where does she come up with this? This woman need professional help.

Finally, after hours of Electra's torments, it's Blight's turn to coach me. "If you make me say anything about mutilating, I will hurt you," I say, as I joke, and at the same time not.

"Ha, alright." I sit on a couch, and instinctively succumb to the pose Electra had me in for hours. "I think you've already formed your character. The chariot ride made you questionably strong. But now that you've shown to the other tributes that you're not afraid of the strongest of strong, and you've gotten the highest score, tied only with that girl from One-"

"Glitz," I interrupt.

"Yes, Glitz, whatever," he says uninterested in her name. "You're brutal. You're arrogant. You're going to be the victor, this you know. The Sixty-sixth Hunger Games were over when you were reaped. But, like I said before, do not threaten the Careers. I know you're officially in with them-I've spoken with their mentors-but you're still the outsider. When tension grows, you'll be the first target."

The Hunger Games interview. I always knew-before being reaped even-I'd do wonderfully with that part of the Games. The questions Caesar Flickerman asked would be so easily twisted around making the Capitol look like monsters, or making the tribute a star. Laughs at every turn. They would hang on every word. The interviews will be mine.

The rest of the day is spent working out the few wrinkles of our plan. Blight asks me questions and I give responses with little time to think. We go over each question and possible answers. "Have you done this before?" he jokes.

As he goes over how Caesar usually acts I find myself wondering about Marla and how she is being coached. "Blight," I say in the middle of his sentence. "How did Harva win?"

He sighs heavily. "She was showered in gifts from sponsors. She was quite the looker in her youth and could handle herself in the Training Center," he says. "Why do you ask?"

"Just wanted some insight on how Marla might be coached. Do you think she'll take the same angle?"

"Honestly, I have no idea. I can never predict Harva's intentions. She's been at this for quite some time. But I don't think that Marla pulled a high enough score to go along that path. She attractive enough to turn a few heads but she'll have to rock the interviews to pull in sponsors. On the other hand, with what you've accomplished, you'll get a large majority of the sponsors even doing moderately at the interviews, especially when it's shown you're with the Careers. We shouldn't see this as an option; we need to capitalize on all the good you've done."

The day concludes so slowly. I feel like a feather that's detached from a bird's wing in mid flight, the ground so long away-watching the people meander about, blowing on me when I'm in the way. All Blight said to me was very helpful and I'm glad we're on the same page now. The whole day tomorrow, up to the hour of the interview, will be spent with the preppy females and Foxer, preparing me for the interviews.

"Violet!" one of my stylist yells at the other who's working on my fingernails. "How many time have I told you, use the triangular funnel clip when dealing with second-degree chipping!" They speak in another language.

"Sorry," she says weakly. "I thought it was only first-degree." Her silver tattoos shimmer in the bright lights.

"Nincompoop," she says under her breath. "Let me do it." She has an honest sting in her voice. The woman with branch like eyelashes takes great pride in her work. The third one, the orange haired one, stays silent as she runs some sort of shampoo into my hair.

Dying my hair another shade lighter making it blonde now. Adding a bit of makeup to hide small blemishes and imperfections. Trimming my hair again to make it more manageable and mature looking. I look to the mirror on the ceiling and into the eyes of another person.

Foxer arrives not soon enough because when he does my prep team lines up and he closely examines their work. Running his hands through my hair. Checking my fingernails with a certain method. Shining a dull light in my face to test the makeup. "Great, good job you three." The word has an instant effect on the stylists; a sigh of relief crosses each.

My stylist dismisses the team and he sits next to me, but it's me who speaks first. "I have to thank you, for setting the ball rolling on my persona. Really, I think it's just what I need to face them," I say, leaving out my distress about him totally changing my appearance. But was that not my plan? Get as many sponsors as I can and then wait out the others? Of course, with the added element of the looming Careers who'll be so close.

He gives a sincere smile. "Like I said, don't let them forget you."

"Never."

I stand on the interview stage, in my fitted suit with a long black lapel over a pearly white front and an eerie black flower in the breast pocket. The audience is in an uproar of excitement. To my right is Marla in a black and white dress that hugs her body tightly. On my left is the girl from 8 in her grey dress that seems to ripple at every motion. Like she's wearing a pond of grey liquid. It's quite entrancing to look at.

The girl from District 2, Victory, only talks about how much she wants to get in the arena and "have fun". I must be vigilant with that one. Bast tells us of her family tree, many members have been in the Games, one has came out victorious. Brill brushes off Caesar's praise of his high training score.

Caesar works magic. Easing the shy into a state of sanguine. The weak look strong, the strong look even more menacing. Even making shy, little Hope laugh at a dumb joke.

It's Marla's turn now. Caesar makes a polite comment on her dress. "Thank you so much, my stylist is a genius!"

"And how are you liking the Capitol so far, Marla?"

"Oh, I just love it here! Everyone is so nice!" Marla vomits girlishness and brightness. She's a completely different person than the one I have been sharing a dwelling with.

Now they're calling Flick Mistral. I stand and move to shake Caesar's blueish hand. "Flick, you look dashing!" He waves his hands, ushering the audience to look at my suit. They ooh and awe at the black and white thing like sheep.

I look out to the people of the Capitol. This game is so much more intricate than these dense people think. They see it as entertainment. Whereas we, the tributes, see it as a struggle to keep sane with our pending death. We have to bare the weight of dying horrifically and keeping a smile on our faces. More than I want to go home, I want the Capitol to see exactly what we go through as tributes. More than anything right now, I want my interview with Caesar to be an accolade to the tortures these Capitol dogs have put the districts through. And they'd have to air it. But that's not how this game is played. And that's not how I get home.

"As do you." I speak in a solemn tongue. He really does look nice, for an affected Capitol creature. His deep blue, light bulb adorned attire is illuminating. We take our seats.

"Firstly, I must ask, a score of ten? It's remarkable, a favorable score indeed." He pauses so the audience can agree with him. Heads nod, some cheer, I hear one whistle and I try to fake holding in a smile. "How'd you do it?"

"Oh, it was easy." Why not give details? All the tributes saw me display all of my skill to the best of my ability and it's just a matter of time until the rest of the country sees. "Threw some knifes, shot some arrows. Do you know of The Gauntlet?" I ask.

"Yes, yes I do."

"Thirty-two seconds. They said I was two seconds shy of beating some record."

"Truly? You must be quick on your feet," speculates Caesar. The Capitol's amusement grows. "If you don't mind me asking, back at your reaping, what were you thinking when your name was called?" As if I had any choice at all here, I think. My answer might as well be mandatory.

I take a sigh, thinking of what to say. "Well I'd be lying if I didn't say I was scared at first."

"Has something changed your mind?" he pries.

"Yes," I say, "looking at some of my competitors, I think I'll do fine."

"Oh really? But who do you think looks the most formidable?"

"Hm." I survey the tributes. "That pretty thing on the end. Glitz."

"I think you've got a good eye there, Flick."

Caesar asks me about the Capitol, home, my mentor. I answer well, being polite and truthful, and arrogant when the time come. But it's when he asks about my strategy in the Games that I choke. Do I tell him about my alliance with the Careers? All six of them have spoken and none mentioned me. Could that mean they don't want the country to know just yet? Would Glitz pull this charade just for my certain death? Actually, I think she would. Snaking her way into my mind for the sole purpose of killing me off. Could they be lying about the whole thing? No, that is not the case. I don't accept it.

"I've been given very strong allies," I say after a few seconds of deliberation.

"And who might they be?"

"I can't tell you," I say. "That would spoil the fun, Caesar. Everyone must wait and see." The buzzer sounds just then, ending my interview.

"And wait we will." There's a good amount of applause. More whistles.

I find my chair, passing the girl from 8 with the dress that seems to be made of some cross between a liquid and solid. Its influxes of grey pulse so rhythmically.

I exhale harshly. Good thing they can't hear my heart beating so fast, I say to myself. For a second I think of saying a few words to Marla, but that thought leaves me soon enough

Few tributes stand out during the last half of the interviews. The pair from 10 reveal they are brother and sister. The boy from 11 speaks of his young brother and Caesar wishes him the best of luck. The best of luck to us all. Finishing with the boy from 12. He speaks quietly. Caesar tries to poke him along into answering the questions. I remember him from the reaping. Wearing a ragged shirt, blackened from coal I'm sure. Impossibly frail. Sickly olive colored skin. A permanent frown on his dirty face. The makeup does little to tarnish the image I have for the poor kids in District 12. It is one of the poorest district, with next to the most tesserae taken. Second only to the over-populated District 11.

Maybe life in 7 wasn't so bad.

The twenty-four tributes stand for one last serenade of the anthem and we're rushed into cars. In the elevator, Hope and her district partner ride with us. I can't help but stare. Stare at this child whose life has a maximum of a week left in it. And if she's lucky, less. But I have the same fate, and I must start worrying about myself. Not this girl. Not the nice boy from District 4. No one else.

Marla and I reach the seventh floor and find our team waiting. Once we go in our rooms for sleep, we'll never see them again. Unless one of us wins, that is. "Oh, you two have been the greatest tributes," Electra says with tears in her artificial eyes. "I wish you the best." She gives us hugs and scoots away. I think of how many times she's said that same line.

Right then the whole world comes down on me. I come to fruition about it all. The arena is just hours away. Electra's tears drop to the floor just as my hopes sink through to oblivion.

I give Harva a brief nod, likely the last gesture I will give her. She takes Marla under her arm and they walk off. When they're out of earshot Blight speaks, talking very quickly. "Listen close, don't trust anyone in there, they're all out for themselves," he tells me. "Leave when the Careers make up half the remaining tributes, or before. Don't get attached to anyone. That was my single biggest mistake."

I manage a quip. "And look where you are."

"Always a trooper. I mean it, though. Only worry about yourself. If you get a chance to kill one, even if it's not by your hand, take it." I nod. He brings me in close for a last hug. "You can do it, you're tough." He sounds like Leto during our last minutes together.

I close the door to my room and lay awake in bed for hours and finally I can't take it. I'm starting to feel claustrophobic. I need air. I need to breathe. I need to see more things before the bloody arena.

On the balcony I look over the edge, finding hundreds of people flooding the candy colored streets. Cars honking their horns trying to get by. From here they all look like ants. Small and insignificant and pointless, but soon that will be me. I will be the ant, and the Capitol will watch as I die.

I notice there are no birds. What did they do to them? I wonder. Is the a barrier preventing their access, just as one does to protect my life? Which is a funny thought because I'm going to be far beyond protection in less than twelve hours.

Maybe not. I have allies. They might not try purposely to save me, but perhaps I could... I don't know, it's all very circumstantial. I do know one thing, however. That is my plan. My plan is to have the Careers do the dirty work of killing. Then when the arena contains only a few tributes, I will leave the false cooperation. Taking, and/or, destroying supplies as I do. And last, pray once I'm in the final three, the other two will simultaneously kill one another. But that never happens. Though it did to a tribute a few years ago, Melos. He was crowned victor without any kills under his belt. I am infinitely envious.

My plan is well formed and I am content with it. I know what I am to do, how to do it. The only variables are my allies' mindsets and the Gamemakers' blood lust. In past slaughters, both have been chaotic.

District 7 comes to my dull thoughts. My father enters my mind and Moxie too. But they both dissolve eventually and reform into Leto. All I can do is guess about my friend. I allow myself to think about my home that's a million miles away from my grasp. Staring at my hands I think of where I've been cut or bruised by the my forest. I remember when I was first starting out and a snare went off as I was setting it and its wire sliced my hand. I'd go back to the blood and cold of District 7 in a heartbeat.

I make my way back to my room where sleep never comes, but my stylist does eventually and I dress in simple garb. Following Foxer to the roof carries the same terrifying feelings as when I walked to the reaping stage. I have the life altering fate. The same quiver thinking of what is to come. The only difference now: I have but hours before the arena. Probably less. I pray for less.

"This is your tracker, Mister Mistral," says a lady in an overcoat, once aboard the hovercraft with Foxer. "Don't move now." She injects a needle in my arm and I cringe.

We fly for some time. I see birds beside us. To my surprise, I am able to eat. It must be because I've fully let my fears go. I know my fate, it can't change. Or eating takes up all the brainpower I have left. And worrying uses up so much.

The aircraft descends, taking us into the catacombs under the arena itself. Whatever comforting word the Capitol has come up with means nothing to me. Stockyard is what I know it as in District 7. The place where cattle go before being slaughtered. Killed for food: killed for fun. I wonder if the tributes from District 10 have some different feel for this place. They must work with places similar in function.

Foxer helps me dress in the clothes assigned to the tributes. This year's is a snow suit the color of one's pupil. It's spooky, how every fiber is black. The zippers cutting down the middle and covering the pockets. The string tightening the hood. I slip on the glossy leggings, they're tight enough so running in them should be simple. An undershirt and a thick, sleek jacket. Black boots. "Expect snow, lots of it," Foxer says placing a small blue pill in my palm. "Here, take this. Every male tribute is required to take it. Stops hair growth."

"Gotta have me stay pretty," I say downing the tablet.

Snow. I am facing an arena with snow. This is good. It snowed in 7 most of the year, for we are farthest north than any other district. I've grown in this climate all my life. I've the upper hand against tributes from hotter district like 11 or 4.

I can only hope for some form of a forest, trees at the very least. But I remember the second Quell. Acres of colorful fruits and flowers that looked harmless, helpful even. Everything was deadly. Fruit inflicted a virus that made bones to break like glass. Flowers shot darts that grew tumors which painfully exploded in blood and puss. The agony these people endured is beyond anything I could fathom. All of the years that stuck with me fill my mind with their harrowing images. When a year with no weapons presenting themselves, tributes resorted to eye-gouging, strangling, beating faces past recognition. Another year, acid rain melted away flesh. A huge flying mutt, even the most mighty of tributes cowered like abused dogs. Poison that altered a small tribute boy's mind viciously he tore out throats, smeared his victims blood on himself for camouflage, tortured others once they were crippled by his horrible traps.

All I can do is pray that I meet none of these fates. Tributes burned alive, eaten alive. What were their last thoughts? Or possibly too consumed by pain to form a clear thought? But I must be strong. For Leto. For Moxie. Her child died in this game, her husband to mostly. She'll be going through the game again.

A female's voice comes through a speaker, telling me that launch is in sixty seconds. Foxer guides me to the spot that will lift me into the arena. "I see you've got a token. What is it?"

I had forgotten about this little thing. I hold it up to see it clearer. "A bear's claw. My friend said it would bring good luck." When I place it over my jacket I'm glad it disrupts the blackness that engulfs me.

"Let's hope it does," he says simply.

Foxer extends an arm and places it on my shoulder, but that doesn't last because a glass falls, trapping me inside the cylindrical tomb. My stylist puts his hand on the glass. Ferocious, he mouths. I nod.

"Ferocious," I say to myself.

And I'm ascending to the arena. In seconds I'm blinded by a white world reflecting light every which way. A roar comes, the known communicator between tribute and Capital. Claudius Templesmith's voice shakes through me.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let the Sixty-sixth Hunger Games begin!"


End file.
